


Ethereal Dawn

by sailsofmemory



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:19:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3520373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailsofmemory/pseuds/sailsofmemory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jupiter falls and hope is lost to the vast reaches of infinite time. The First Primary of House Abrasax capitalizes on her moral fortitude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Impermanence

Jupiter isn’t entirely certain just what she feels when she sees the ball of energy propelled from the unseen weapon hit Caine square in the chest. It isn’t surprise, or fear, or even terror. Rather it is some strange feeling that Jupiter cannot immediately pin down, but she can name it when she sees Caine’s body hit the stone floor beneath the viewing field of Balem Abrasax’s crystalline floor.

It is relief.

Caine's eyes close. Perhaps they had seen her in their dying moments as they hazed over in pursuit of death, that flighty mistress. But Jupiter will never know. Her final hope for escape lies upon the ground. There is nothing for it. She does not scream.

She is so tired of fighting, so exhausted from the whirlwind of the past few days and from all of the information imparted to her and battles for her soul and attempts on her life. She wants one solitary night back home, unaware of all of this. She wants to sit directionless and drifting upon the roof of her uncle’s house, while somewhere in the dark the sirens and the thunder drift around her and the stars overhead dance in their cold, remote beauty; a world where she is not this strange re-occurrence of an interstellar queen. 

And some small part of her believes that Caine’s death might grant her that peace, and that reprieve from this world. But another part of her knows better, knows that, deep down, this nightmare through which she swims without hope of breaking surface will eventually drown her, and that Caine’s death stops nothing. She cannot breathe but she cannot drown. She floats in some strange purgatory, neither living nor dead, nor hopeful of any redemption. 

Jupiter returns to the land of the living, or perhaps the realm of the eternal gods.

An immortal is gazing at her, triumphant. There are exploding galaxies in his eyes. And she knows that Balem Abrasax has claimed victory. 

As the burning hurricanes collapse around them, there seems to be a resigned power imbalance that spreads itself between them. Balem nods, nearly imperceptibly, at Chicancery Night. Somewhere, Jupiter feels the tablet being removed from her hands, almost gently guided out of her grasp by the small fingers of Balem’s closest advisor. And she knows that, now, Balem Abrasax has nothing but time. Indeed, it is a strange, ironic thought; his most precious resource is also his greatest weapon against her rebellion.

The light fingers of Mr. Night are again brushing against hers, now softly drawing her wrists behind her back and binding them. His touch conveys a sorrow, an unspoken apology, a regret. Jupiter cannot dwell upon the hands of the advisor. A new touch is upon her face, cold fingers that dance and ghost across her cheek and jaw, fingers that move across her skin as though she is an illusion, a breakable hallucination, something that might disappear if handled without the utmost care.

Apparently Balem Abrasax likes to test his theories.

Pain explodes across her face. She holds her head to the side, jaw resting on her chin, keeping her eyes away from the coldly victorious eyes of Balem. Jupiter knows one emotion now. Fear has replaced relief. She now truly understands the magnitude of the situation, the gravity of what has transpired in the past few minutes from Caine’s death to the stinging slap across her face that now forced white-hot pain to slowly spread across her cheek. Resigned, she slowly turns to face Balem again.

His blank visage gives away nothing. But Jupiter sees the sound and the fury behind his eyes. The immortal seems to read her thoughts.

“Time, Jupiter, is the luxury afford to us,” he breaths, “It is our right.”

Jupiter says nothing. It matters not. No words that she can craft will change his mind now that Balem holds the true upper hand. Caine is dead. The Aegis will soon escape the collapsing atmosphere of the raging planet. Her family lies unconscious and unknowing beneath her feet. There is no one else. She is alone with this powerful ruler of galaxies.

She has one bargaining chip for her life: the lives of six billion people. Jupiter silently resolves that, regardless of the terrors that he might unleash upon her, Balem Abrasax will never gain control of Earth.

His eyes are whitecaps of memory upon a raging sea, confusing and violent.

There is no life beyond this.

Balem Abrasax’s words are a whisper that tears open the silence, a mere breath upon her cracked lips.

“You will come with me.”

Jupiter cannot protest. Her wrists are bound, her will more so. She again feels Mr. Night’s fingers grasp her hands, softly, softly. She is spun around and the vast expanse of Balem’s planetary empire disappears behind her; her feet numbly march across his halls and board an elaborately decorated ship as all around her fires rage and pillars of industry collapse. Jupiter feels nothing now, not relief or fear or anger. She only feels the cold breath of Balem Abrasax as he follows closely behind her, boarding the ship with a contingent of guards.

The First Primary of House Abrasax disappears into a chamber deep within the hull.

They leave the death behind. Somewhere, far ahead, imperceptible, a clear blue highway, cold stars that dance through the wine-soaked galaxies. But Jupiter cannot see it.


	2. Devoutness

Jupiter is twelve days old.

This is how she measures time now. Her skin tingles. She runs a hand over an unblemished arm, simultaneously impressed and horrified by its perfected pallor. The paleness troubles her. She shines with a strange coldness that is reflected by the skies above their floating ship.

There is a mirror nearby. Jupiter rises and walks haltingly toward it; she is both intrigued and resentful of her new appearance. She drinks in her reflection with hungry eyes. The callouses that had previously graced her knees and palms, gifts of a long life spent cleaning houses, have disappeared. It is perhaps the most marvelous thing to Jupiter. She stares harder.

Irises of a thousand stars watch over her as she marvels at herself. 

She is disgusted. Rushing to her private bath, she promptly and violently vomits the contents of her stomach into the toilet. A low and painful moan escapes her perfected lips, a sad lament to a cold and unfeeling universe whose laws she has violated somehow. Jupiter collapses to the floor, completely spent. Memories of her new birthday flash across her mind like the darting comets overhead. She recalls moments and terrors…

Balem had summoned her. Mr. Night had come to collect her. They had not spoken; there was no need. 

She was delivered, that was the word the splice had used.

“I am delivering Ms. Jones.”

She was a package, a commodity. 

She was left alone with the eldest Abrasax. Cold, unfeeling, incomprehensible, transfixing; he was the soul of the universe. Jupiter had fixated, of all things, upon his gilded collar. It caressed his neck as a lover, golden and close and intimate. She mused upon its purpose as Balem stalked toward her. His footsteps were air. His eyes were fire. 

Jupiter was abandoned at the bottom of the universe.

Balem guided her feet to the pool. She protested heavily. Her fingernails had raked at his perfect skin, at the exposed flesh of his chest and stomach. Jupiter liked to think she had scarred him, somehow, had left a mark on the immortal that could never be erased, not in a thousand years and not with a thousand lives.

It was then that Balem had picked her up, tossing her roughly over his shoulder. Jupiter had not thought him capable of such strangely human tactics. She flashed back. Her cousin had done this, once. Their pool of infinity had been the shores of the lake; her protestations had been the giggling foolery of youth. His actions had been the responsive actions of the young and vigorous and playful, his touch had been gentle and yielding as they entered the icy waters of the Earth.

Balem’s touch had burned with the age of ten thousand galaxies.

She screamed as they broke the surface of the pool.

The waters of infinite life were warm and inviting.

Jupiter could feel humanity swirling around her as Balem forced her under. Her tears mingled with the life giving water. Silent screams had continued to escape through her parted lips. Perhaps the stars dancing overhead had heard her cries, but she received no mercy from them.

When Balem finally released his grip, Jupiter rose from the waters, gasping for air and for redemption. She was reborn into Hell. Perhaps Balem Abrasax had seen the flames raging behind her eyes, as he had cautiously moved slightly away from her rising form. And she felt the blood of Seraphi Abrasax flowing through her veins.

She had not seen Balem since that day…

Jupiter is thirteen days old.

She is getting weaker. Everything that she eats is promptly lost. The war crimes committed on her poor toilet are abhorrent. Eventually, she stops eating. Sickness surrounds her like flies upon the dead. Perhaps she is dead, Jupiter muses. Her life is bought with the stolen futures of the murdered. There is blood on her name.

Jupiter is sick. Her mind rebels against the perfection of her body. She floats away from herself, spinning in incomprehensible movements away from familiar land and drifting off into an endless and raging sea.

Is there a God?

She muses heavily as she shivers against her sheets. Overhead, planets dance, cold and dark and filled with seraphim and tears.

Her mother had taught her the prayers, the chants, the supplications to the Mother of the Dawn and the Most Holy Theotokos. Where is the royal city now, she wonders? The New Jerusalem must be swimming with the liquid souls that touch her skin and dance upon her perfect lips.

She whispers prayers for their souls. She does not pray for her own. It was forfeit the moment her skin broke the waters of infinite life, dragged down to the living afterlife by the only ruler to which the universe pays homage. Her drifting mind imagines chants and incense rising up to him. He sits upon a gilded throne. His eyes are impassive and cold as he oversees the supplications that encompass the stars.

Balem Abrasax is the only God here. 

Jupiter shares in his Holy Eucharist of strange sacrifices to himself. Perhaps she should confess her sins to the immortal with galaxies for eyes.


	3. Sempiternal

A Brief History of Time slips from Jupiter’s fingers when she suddenly notices Kalique Abrasax standing in the shadows of her chamber. There is no movement between them. Finally, Jupiter stands and retrieves the Hawking novella from its undignified position on the marble floor and places it, nearly reverently, upon her bedspread. Jupiter does not know why or how Balem Abrasax maintains a library of Earth’s literature in his empire; she does not question, but only uses.

She does not take her eyes off of Kalique.

The Second Primary of House Abrasax is a vision cloaked in starlight and silks.

Jupiter knows that Kalique Abrasax is dangerous. She is the snake that lies in wait within the tall weeds, obscured by grasses and clothed in its own splendid raiment, calling gently to unsuspecting prey. She is the watcher on the wall, the eyes that stay open when all others have shut themselves against the night. She is certainly more dangerous than Titus, more skilled, more willing to settle in for the long game.

And Kalique Abrasax could persuade the Devil himself to do her dirty work.

Jupiter approaches cautiously, extending her arms to bestow a motherly hug upon the immortal. She, too, can play this game.

She stumbles forward slightly when her arms fall through Kalique’s suddenly transparent frame. The woman smiles sadly at her confusion.

“Balem does not know I am here, Jupiter,” she says, “I have come of my own accord.” 

Her voice is a trickle of honey, a swirling storm.

Jupiter steps back. She is slowly coming to the realization that she is playing a game whose rules were never explained to her, and she is the king piece. She did not volunteer to join this world. Their lives are cut diamonds and the heady notes of jazz in back allies and the first line of cocaine on a mirror shattered by moonlight, and Jupiter is a flickering streetlamp encased by advertisements and posters – but she is desirable to them.

She composes herself, draws herself up to encompass the galaxies flowing through her veins. Kalique takes note. Seraphi Abrasax is not dead. Jupiter’s voice breaks the silence like the morning traffic draws the chariot of the dawn.

 

“Why are you here, Kalique?” 

The immortal has the good grace to pause before answering. When she speaks, her voice is the business section of the morning paper, the handshake and the polite nod of a financial transaction. 

“Balem seeks to marry you, Jupiter,” she responds.

Any follows words are abruptly cut off by a harsh laugh from Jupiter. Kalique recognizes her faux pas and attempts to backtrack. She centers herself, the previous cringe of embarrassment vanishing and leaving a blank face, a palate cleansed and ready for another course. 

“He is not Titus, Jupiter. Titus was reckless and had no real understanding of his endeavors. Balem knows this,” she says, pausing slightly before continuing. “There are other ways of gaining control of Earth through marriage, Jupiter.”

Jupiter measures her words carefully. She feels as though she is plunging her fingers into the softness of the earth on a spring morning; there is depth here, but also darkness, things to be discovered and unearthed but also things better left to ferment in the blackness of the ground. Ah, gunpowder and smoke, you Abrasax royals, she muses. You’ve gone and left bullet wounds in so many chests. 

Kalique moves closer to her in the silence. Elysian, this one is, Jupiter thinks, as the immortal walks upon stardust across the room.

Words drip like poisoned manna from Kalique’s lips. Jupiter knows she should grasp at them, as one starving in the wilderness, but she cautions herself against it.

“Your will is iron, Jupiter, but metal melts under the most intense of heats. Do not let yourself get burned by those who carry fire in their veins and flames in their eyes,” she whispers. “Balem is chaos and darkness in its highest form.”

Jupiter cannot speak. She is full of words and empty of mouth.

A knock at the door rattles the silence. Kalique jumps, her façade of perfection momentarily shattered as Jupiter sees a flash of fear dart across her face like the shooting of a travelling star overhead. 

“Hell follows with him, Jupiter.”

Kalique Abrasax puts a hand to her neck and disappears. 

Chicanery Night steps into the room, oblivious to the lingering presence of the vanished royal whose position he now occupies. Jupiter nods impatiently at him. Night is the worker pushing past the crowd to find some peace and quiet, the silence in the library, the one who prefers to speak poignantly or not at all. At times, Jupiter appreciates his candor. Right now, she is weaving and confused and requires the raging thoughts of her own consciousness. 

“Balem demands your presence.”

The words are not unexpected. 

Jupiter follows Night from her chambers. She can still feel the heavy air where an image of Kalique Abrasax spoke with words like patterned silk. Her feet drag slightly. She is still sick. Night notices but says nothing. Sickness permeates the Abrasax family. For all of their immortality and beauty, time still ravishes the minds of their members, sinking in like a slow but inevitable coil of blackness.

Balem’s voice echoes in her head as they approach his chambers. It is cut from stone and skeletons, peaceful and slightly familiar and harsh. He speaks in whispers and dreams. His skin is pale and ash, a lazy smile coated in morning dew and evening stars.


End file.
